


Let Me Teach You about Distance

by mogumogu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Friendship, Love, M/M, Smut, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 02:59:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogumogu/pseuds/mogumogu
Summary: Sherlock is terminally ill, he talked to John about ending his life.John want to save Sherlock, but what if saving Sherlock only make him suffering?Could John stop him?It is an angst fiction, prepare for your heart.(I'm sorry I'm terrible with summary)





	

There was nothing left to say.   
John covered Sherlock's body with his, and as Sherlock put his arms around him, he could picture John in all his incarnation : when they first met, how John hand brushed his for the first time ; their first case together, how John hand pulled the trigger for saving him from that bloody psychopath; how John's eyes always longing for him.   
The moon rolled, sloe-eyed in the night sky; and Sherlock breathed in the scent of John skin. "I love you" he said.   
John kissed him so gently, Sherlock wondered if he had imagined it. He pulled back slightly, to look into John's eyes.  
And then there was a shot.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
And another shot.

 

When you loved someone, you put their needs before your own.   
No matter how inconceivable those needs were, no matter how fucked up; no matter how much it made you feel like you were ripping yourself into pieces.  
John didn't realize he'd begun to cry, partly in shock and partly in acceptance, until he tasted himself, slick and salty, on Sherlock's lips. It was not supposed to be this way; oh, God, but how could he be a hero when saving Sherlock would only make him hurt more? Out of control, Sherlock's hand began to stroke John's back, and he wondered, Who is here for whom? Then suddenly he had to be inside Sherlock, and with urgency that surprised him he found himself ripping Sherlock's jeans and shoving them down his thighs, wrapping Sherlock's legs around him as he came.  
Take me with you, he thought.

Sherlock straightened his clothes, his cheeks flaming. John couldn’t stop apologizing. "It doesn't matter," Sherlock said. John sat a few feet away from him, his hands clasped in his lap. His jeans were still unbuttoned, and the smell of sex carried on the wind. He felt unnaturally calm. "What do you want me to do," John said, "afterward?"  
They hadn't talked about it; in fact. "I don't know," Sherlock said, and he didn’t; he'd never gotten this far in his thoughts. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Do anything," he said. "Whatever you need to."  
John buttoned his jeans and pulled Sherlock onto his lap. His arms closed around Sherlock and he leaned into John, mumbling, "Forgive me."

John hands were shaking as he handed Sherlock the gun.  
"Two bullets?" Sherlock asked.  
John lifted his shoulder. "Just in case," he answered, daring Sherlock to ask him to explain something he did not really understand himself. Just in case one bullet didn't do the trick?  
Then the gun lay between them, a living thing. Sherlock picked it up, its weight bending his wrist.   
There was so much John wanted to say; he wanted to beg Sherlock to stop, to tell him, he could still back out of this, although he felt things had gotten this far he did not quite believe it himself. So John pressed his lips against Sherlock's, hard. But then his mouth curled around a sob and he broke away before the kiss was finished, his body folding like he'd been punched. "I am doing this," John said, "because I love you."   
Sherlock's face was still white with tears, "I am doing this, because I love you, too." Sherlock gripped John's hand. "I want you to hold me," he said.   
John moved him into his arm, Sherlock's chin on his right shoulder. John committed to memory the solid weight of Sherlock's, and the life that ran like a current, before pulling back so slightly to give Sherlock room to place the gun to his head.

The gun slipped on Sherlock's temple, and John suddenly knew that if Sherlock killed himself, John would die too. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it would happen. It was still vivid in John memories, when Sherlock jumped off from a building, how he could not function in his daily living. How he ended up two years in miserable pain. Could he going through all of that ever again?   
Even then, when he saw Sherlock did it before his eyes, he still believe, still dared to asked Sherlock to stop being dead. But not this time. If he loses Sherlock now, not only he would loses him forever, but he would loses himself too, because you couldn't live for a very long without heart.

John reached up with his hand and grabbed Sherlock's right wrist firmly. John was stronger than Sherlock; he could draw the gun away from his head. "I'm sorry," John said. "But you can't, Sherlock."  
It took a moment for Sherlock's eyes to focus on his, and when they did, they darkened with confusion, shock, and then rage. "Yes I can," Sherlock said, grabbing for the gun, which John held out of his reach.  
"John," he said after a moment. "If you love me, give it back."  
"I do love you!" John shouted, his face contorted.  
"If you can't stay with me, I understand," Sherlock said, looking down the pistol. "Go then. But let me do it."  
John mouth tightened, and he waited, but Sherlock would not meet his eye. Look at me, John silently begged. Neither of us is going to win. And although he was not feeling the lead of a bullet, now that he's opened himself up to it, he could clearly feel Sherlock's sorrow, which made it hard to breathe and impossible to think. He had to get out of there. He had to get far away from Sherlock, so that he would not feel anything at all.

John waiting under the street lamp, and realized he was waiting to hear the shot.  
A half hour passed, slow and viscous, and before John realized what he was doing he'd walked halfway back to the building. He saw Sherlock just where he'd left him, cross legged on the floor with the gun cradled between his palms. He was stroking the length of it as he might have caressed a puppy, and he was crying so hard he could not catch his breath.  
Sherlock glanced up when he noticed John's feet at the edge of the door. His eyed were red, his nose streaming. "I can't do it," Sherlock said, choking on his own words. "I can tell you to get the hell out of here, and I can yell and scream and say I want to, but I can't."  
Heart pounding, John pulled Sherlock to his feet. This is a sign, he thought. Tell him what it means. But as soon as he was standing, Sherlock pressed the gun into John's arm. The pistol was slick with Sherlock's sweat, and as warm as his own skin. "I'm too much of a coward to kill myself," he whispered. "And too much of coward to live." Sherlock lifted his eyes. "Where do I go from here?"  
Anything John was going to say dried in his throat. He knew that if he wanted to, he could wrench the gun away from Sherlock and throw it so far that he'd never be able to find it. John was stronger than Sherlock...and that was the problem. John could suffer; he always been able to. It was why he could invaded Afghanistan; why he could survived losing Sherlock once; why he could talk himself into letting Sherlock kill himself. But even when they were tiny, when he saw the pain rise beneath Sherlock's gaze, it had hurt John more than when he'd actually fallen. John could stand pain, himself. He just couldn't stand Sherlock's.  
John was transfixed by the agony he saw on Sherlock's face. The illness was killing Sherlock. Slowly and far more painfully than the gun would.  
John's mind cleared with a great buzz and burst of light. Just like that, it made sense. Sherlock was not afraid of dying. He was afraid of not dying.  
In the moment, with the night shrinking around them, John didn’t think to run, to get help, to buy time. It was just the two of them, and there was no alternative - for the first time John understood what Sherlock had been feeling. "Please," Sherlock whispered, and John realize that pleasing Sherlock was all he'd really wanted to do.  
John picked up the gun in his left hand, and embraced Sherlock. "This is what you want?" he whispered, and Sherlock, realizing, nodded. He relaxed in John arms, and that small degree of trust unraveled him. "I can't do this to you," John said, drawing back.  
Sherlock put his hand on John's and pulled the gun to his temple. "Then do it for me," he said.

John voice was husky and deep, beloved. "Ready?" he asked.  
Sherlock felt the gun touch his skin, and drew in a breath. "Now," he said.

Now, John, now.  
John heard the words, heard Sherlock's voice vibrating against his chest, but his hands were shaking again and if he pulled the trigger he'd probably shoot himself and was that really as bad?  
Now. Now.  
John was crying so hard at this point when he looked at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. John blinked and Sherlock was beautiful and calm and waiting, his mouth parting like it sometimes did when he found something interesting. Sherlock opened his eyes and all John could see was Sherlock's conviction.

"Oh, I love you," John said, at least he thought he did, but Sherlock heard him either way. Sherlock brought up his right hand and settled it over John's, his fingers curving over his, to urge him on.  
Sherlock pressed his hand, and it squeezed on the trigger, and then John was deaf and dizzy and falling, with Sherlock still in his arms.

To John surprise, when someone shot themselves, they not merely just died. They were bleeding and leaking, and he can feel Sherlock with Sherlock weight, slowly taken away from him. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, This is it, it said. Its done. Thank you. John blinked his blurry eyes, and was he dreaming? Sherlock's eyes is closed, like he is in deep sleep. Like he would awake if John make the slightest move. But he didn't.  
This is not right, John thought.  
And suddenly, when he saw the hole on Sherlock temple, reality hit him in a flash of brilliance.   
Sherlock would never awake.  
Sherlock was taken away from him.  
For like, ever?  
That realization draw a hole to John chest too, slowly but surely the hole is growing. Leaving numb, pain and many other emotion that John couldn’t contain for himself.   
No, no, please. This is hurt.  
With his trembling hand, he bring he gun and place it on to that hole. The weight of the pistol giving a warm sensation, and before he couldn't think twice, he pulled the trigger.  
Then, the deafening sound come again. 

In that split second, he thought about his life. His youth comes in blurred montage, then dark montage for the second part, he couldn't remember anything from this part. Then, the last montage, vivid, warm and slow. Mostly this part contain himself and a lean tall man. Who are you? John thought. Before he could answer it himself, John hear a one familiar voice, deep, husky but lovely, whispered in his head.  
John, come on my John.   
Sherlock? John thought. That name must be contain a magical spell, because when he said it, his vision cleared, and a tall curly man with the brightest smile stood before him.  
Yea John, in the end it always you and me, right?  
Of course, John think. I can't picture it any other way.


End file.
